


might not be that bad

by BetweenLines55



Series: Hey Jealousy [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Minor Mentions of Violence, Tattoos, That song is as old as Taylor Swift, like seriously go listen to Hey Jealousy, more Gin Blossoms lyrics, so yeah this became a series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:03:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3211850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BetweenLines55/pseuds/BetweenLines55
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning after Francis confesses, Arthur wakes up early to get away and clear his head. He makes questionable decisions when he's on his own. </p><p>Arthur acts and Francis schemes.</p><p>(Sequel to "gin and blossoms", which I suggest reading before this)</p>
            </blockquote>





	might not be that bad

He's not sure what else to call the feeling but he supposes the frog's declaration of love and all that and the proposed idea that he could actually _love_ his neighbor across the Channel is perhaps not the _most_ idiotic idea Francis has ever had. Still, Arthur thinks it’s rather disconcerting to be analyzed and picked apart like that in the bedroom of all places. For years it seemed as though the bedroom was the one place that nothing political ever mattered and that the anthropomorphic personifications didn't have to be their state embodiments for a while; Arthur and Francis were just that, Arthur and Francis.

He also doesn’t know how he feels about the feelings thing in general. He generally tries to stay away from emotions, other than anger and arousal, which he knows how to deal with. Incidentally, both of those aforementioned feelings involve Francis in some way, as does this supposed _love_ thing, so perhaps…perhaps he’s even more confused than he thought.

Arthur feels cowardly for doing so, but he leaves early the next morning, before Francis, who is usually up with the sun to start baking, even begins to stir. He leaves a note saying he’ll be back later (he’s not even sure at the time how much _later_ it’s going to be) and not to wait up if he’s not back by supper time. Francis will be alright. The Frenchman isn’t a stranger in London (it’s odd to think that his…whatever Francis is to him, is older than his capital) and he knows to call 999 if the house starts burning down or the world ends.

Hm. They would end and Arthur wouldn’t have a problem anymore.

Arthur turns his mobile off as he leaves the house. It’s a Saturday, his boss knows better than to call…and Francis will surly get the hint. The country operated just fine when Arthur took weekends off and couldn’t be reached every second of everyday, surly it would last one more day as such.

It lifts his spirits, to tromp down the street in his Doc Martens again, a cup of tea clutched in his hand, bought from Starbucks with a fiver. Usually, when Arthur thinks about taking time for himself, it’s at home, with a book or some needlepoint, and not having to answer the phone or the door for the entire day. He forgets how alive London is sometimes, which seems odd to even him since it’s London that beats in tandem in his chest every day.

There’s an entrance to the Tube not far from his flat, which is what he usually takes to get to Whitehall. Today, however, he’s decided on a bit of an adventure, so he digs out his Oyster card from his wallet and sets his sights on Piccadilly Circus. He wraps one arm around the pole in the Tube car and brushes some crumbs off his striped jumper that no doubt came from the scone he had bought at Starbucks earlier. Almost immediately, he remembers that Francis had given him his jumper a Christmas previous and resists the urge to growl in annoyance for fear of scaring his fellow passengers.

The ride passes without much incident and Arthur is left in his conflicting thoughts over the Frenchman he is currently sharing his bed with. It seems as though last night had been a tipping point in their…relationship, Arthur is hesitant to call it. It’s a relationship of some sort, Arthur supposes, though certainly not what it could be, what it might be if there wasn’t…well…everything.

Able to get lost in his thoughts, he tries to think back to a time where he thought he was in love. It’s hard to find an instance really, because that’s not how his brain was, is, wired to work. He had been bred from a long line of monarchs to value his lust for blood and his ability to be unforgiving and unmerciful. His naturally rebellious nature had been crafted and honed to a drive for power and gain and greed and wealth. It wasn’t until…

Bess. He thinks he was in love with Bess. Is. Was.

It’s hard for countries not to fall in love with at least one of their citizens, since humans make themselves to be so infuriatingly persistent in nature. Bess knew perfectly well that Arthur, at that time, before the New World, was little more than a lion in the skin of a man. He was wild, feral, and drunk on power.

Bess knew that, and grew fond of him anyways. She and her love for theatre and words and literature and _culture_ was that Arthur felt himself drawn too. She accepted the man, the monster, he was and yet opened a door to a whole new side of England, one full of that music and literature and culture. Her love, affection at the very least for there was some debate even at the time if the queen’s heart could ever belong to another, was what had tamed Arthur, if even a smidge.

Arthur’s flung out of his thoughts when his stop arrives and the doors open. He follows the masses up the escalator and into broad daylight. It’s a short walk from the stop to Piccadilly Circus, so Arthur quickly falls into step with the rest of the natives and tourists going about their business. He feels like an outsider in the very world he’s helped constructed for his people. He feels…displaced.

Even in the middle of the day, the lights of Piccadilly Circus are as brilliant as ever. Arthur is happy for the distance he’s put between himself and Francis. In the back of his mind, a little voice whines _absence makes the heart grow fonder_. Arthur does his very best to push that thought away as he mills about the shops.

He strays father from the main square, not particularly worried about where he’s headed. The streets narrow a bit and the shops get a bit more eccentric but Arthur is still too lost in thought. The whole Francis situation makes Arthur long for a drink, but even for him, one in the afternoon seems a bit early for a pint.

He’s still contemplating on how to pass the time before he _can_ go out and get drunk when he walks smack into a low hanging sign outside of one of the shops.

“Bugger,” He mutters to himself. There has to be some kind of code against signs like that but before he can get much further in that train of thought he looks up to see what exactly the sign above him says.

 _Tattoos_ , it reads, _at Piccadilly_. Intrigued, Arthur peaks into the shop window. There’s a man behind the counter with sleeves of color up his arms and initials of some sort of his neck. It looks clean inside, even if it is on a shadier, smaller street. Complex designs hang in frames behind the man at the counter that catch Arthur’s eye.

 _A look couldn’t hurt_ , says another small voice in the back of Arthur’s mind. Against his better judgment, he opens the door with the small tinkle of a bell and the man behind the counter looks up.

“How can I help ya’?” the man asks, already shifting to get out binders of finished work for him to see.

“Maybe. I’d like to see some lettering.” Arthur says, telling himself it’s out of pure curiosity. He certainly didn’t set out this morning to go and get a tattoo. Even so, he accepts the black binder from the man and flips through it. A script that looks a bit like Francis’ penmanship catches his eye and sticks. He can’t help but trace the sampled text with his finger, which apparently catches the man’s eye behind the counter.

“Lookin’ to get your bird’s name?” He asks. It’s a rather blunt question, but Arthur cannot blame him. He had been looking at the script rather fondly. It doesn’t stop him from turning a bit pink though, and he shakes his head.

“Bloke’s then? No probl’m.” The man amends.

Arthur shakes his head again, “No, there’s no one. I don’t think getting anyone’s name tattooed on my person would be a good idea.”

“Oh, so you’re not sure if you really love ‘em or not?”

“What, no! That’s—that’s not it at all. How did you even know—,”

The man snorts with laughter, “I’ve seen ‘em all. All the looks people get when they’re tryna’ figure out what they want. You’re looking at that lettering like you want to bugger it. It’s gotta remind you of something.”

He’s still taken aback by the man’s forwardness, but finds the truth in his words. “It’s really not any of your business, but I’m really not sure of anything right now.”

“I know it ain’t my business, but gettin’ a tattoo ain’t usually a good idea if you ain’t sure.”

“That kind of thought must be bad for business.” Arthur states. The man laughs again, “Keeps us from getting too many dissatisfied customers. You sure they love you?”

“Well, yes, but, see…” He’s at a loss for words to describe the situation, “We’ve tried going about it before. But…they seem much more certain about it this time.”

“Are you?”

Arthur leans more of his weight against the counter and shrugs one shoulder, “I think so. I’m bloody awful about these sorts of things. I have no idea how to go about this, with this person.”

The man thinks about for a minute, long enough for Arthur’s gaze to stray back to the sample words on the paper. It really does remind Arthur of Francis’ handwriting, and he finds some strange sense of comfort in it.

“Actions speak louder than words, you know.” The man says. After Arthur stares at him in shock for several seconds, the man goes to shrug and says, “I watch a lot of shit telly.”

Arthur laughs, “Alright, fuck it. Won’t be the first time I go and get inked and regret it somewhat later. You know any French by any chance?”

The man finally looks at him, as though he’s lost his head, “I don’t mean to be rude, mister, but you sure you ain’t drunk? I’m not gonna tattoo you if yer drunk.”

Arthur shakes his head, “No, unfortunately not. I’m just rash and very stupid.”

 

By the time he makes it back to the Tube station, he’s already feeling loads better. Arthur likes to, well not _brag_ exactly but point out from time to time that his pain tolerance is extremely high. Once one has a few beheadings and bullet wounds under one’s belt, the pain of a tattoo is miniscule.

However, even the annoyance of minute pain has decreased considerably as he takes his seat in the sparsely populated Tube car. There is only a hint of tenderness under the bandage and no doubt the newly inked design has already started to heal over.

As he turns his phone on, Arthur mulls over the possibilities of how the impending conversation about his new…decoration will go. As Arthur sees it, there are two main possibilities:

One: Arthur completely misread everything, is completely off his rocker, and Francis had just been playing with his feelings (or whatever Arthur likes to pretend is there in their stead). Once word had gotten out about Arthur’s failed stunt for his enemy’s heart, he’d be the laughing stock of the world. Literally. He could already hear America’s boisterous, obnoxious laughter from here. Ugh.

However, there was option two, which Arthur was hoping against hope for: He’d correctly read between the lines last night and Francis really does have feelings and maybe, for a while, they could work things out. Admittedly, some of Arthur’s nicest, most cherished memories are if Francis, and not just lying broken in a puddle of his own blood at Arthur’s feet.

There are hazy childhood memories: begrudgingly taking Francis’ hand and running with him through fields of tall grasses and wild flowers, then taking those flowers and weaving them into Francis’ hair, even then long and blond. Perhaps they are both a bit old for such childish games, but Arthur would like to once again feel the warmth being with Francis once gave him.

Arthur even thinks, fleetingly, that being with Francis still gives him such feelings that he just elects to ignore.

Unfortunately, no matter how much faith Arthur has in Francis’ predicted response, Arthur is pessimistic by nature and can feel his stomach knot itself as he walks up the steps from the station and into the dimming daylight. Absently, he checks his mobile. There are a couple of drunken sexts from Prussia and a dick pic Arthur reminds himself to save later for blackmail material. His boss, too, sent him a message but nothing scandalous, except the next meeting he’s supposed to show face at.

The thing that surprises him, however, is the message Francis had sent shortly after ten that morning:

_Seems as though you are in one of your moods, cher, but I hope that you have a good day._

An hour later, Francis had sent:

            _Also, I will wait up for you if I so please._

Arthur snorts quietly to himself, pocketing his mobile. Francis’ texts had done a bit to help lessen the knots in his stomach, and the promise of Francis made the sound of home suddenly much more inviting.

After a moment of hesitation, Arthur takes out his mobile and sends a quick text to Francis:

            _See you in five._

Almost immediately he receives a response, a bunch of kissy face and heart eyed emojis. Arthur blames Japan.

Finally, his building comes into view, and before he can dig out his key, the door opens to reveal—one of his neighbors. Oh. Arthur waves a vague hello and takes the stairs two at a time. The thought of Francis and home has made his body grow weary all of a sudden. His side tingles.

He unlocks the door; before he can announce his arrival, Francis appears from the kitchen, hair pulled back and apron tied around his waist. It reads: _BAISEZ LE CHEF_

The offer is tempting.

They stare at each other for several seconds before Arthur reaches out to Francis and takes a cautious step forward. Arthur can feel the centuries old tension fizz in and out of existence for several seconds. It is here for them to dance around each other like this.

Closer now, Arthur takes a step and kisses Francis his welcome. It’s short and ultimately chaste for the two of them, but when Arthur pulls away, he is surprised to see Francis looking half surprised with a blush high on his cheeks. The Frenchman quickly recovers however and retorts, “That was most out of character, _cher_. Perhaps my ways have finally been rubbing off on you, hm?”

Arthur scowls and steps away. “See, we were having a moment there. You ruined it.”

“Ah,” Francis chuckles as Arthur leans down to remove his shoes, “Désolé. You must also be rubbing off on me.”

Still leaning down, Arthur tosses one of his Doc Martens at Francis, and it makes a satisfying thump when it collides with his shin.

“ _Merde_!” Francis exclaims. Arthur grins as he straightens.

“Oh come on, you did deserve that one.”

Francis pouts (half Arthur’s brain thinks _adorably_ and Arthur is quick to stomp out that idea) and so Arthur can’t help but peck…whatever Francis is to him…on the lips.

Wrapped up in the moment, Francis twines his arms around Arthur to rest on the small of Arthur’s back, dangerously close to Arthur’s new tattoo. Still, Arthur revels in the closeness and allows himself to enjoy it.

“How was your day?” Francis asks. Arthur gives a one shouldered shrug and says, noncommittally, “Alright, I suppose. It was good to get out. How was yours?”

“The same I suppose.” Francis says. He rubs his thumbs in small circles on the small of Arthur’s back. He tries not to purr.

“Dinner smells lovely.” Arthur mumbles into Francis neck.

“Ah, yes, dinner is not quite ready. How about you go clean up and we will eat, yeah?”

Arthur pulls back to give Francis a hesitant look. It is clear the Frenchman is hiding something from him, but then again, he is doing the same and so can hardly blame him. He pulls (somewhat hesitantly) away from the embrace and walks down the hall to his ( _their_ ) bedroom to clean up. He peels off his jumper and his Oxford underneath and rifles through his closet for another, nicer button-up shirt of a deep green.

He finishes doing up the last button when Francis calls for him from the kitchen. He pads down the hallway, following his nose to the smell of bouillabaisse. Francis only makes bouillabaisse when he is being nostalgic or wants to feel at home. Arthur distinctly remembered long nights during World War Two in Calais by the sea, and the smell of Francis making bouillabaisse as he propped himself up on a cane.

The words on his side burn a little.

Even though Arthur is prepared for a large soup pot filled with fish soup, he is not ready for the sight of lit candles and one of his fancier tablecloths thrown over the little dining table Arthur has. Edith Piaf (oh Francis has really done it now) is playing softly in the background from the phone dock on the kitchen counter.

He stands there, in the entryway to the kitchen, for several seconds, probably like a complete moron as he watches Francis watch him.

"Ah, do you like it?" It is unlike Francis to be worried when it comes to any matters of the heart. Then again, all of today has seemed very…un-Francis like. The entirety of the situation makes Arthur uncomfortable. He thinks he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“It’s lovely.” Arthur finds himself saying, and he means it. It’s not often he’s sincere with the frog, but he finds himself meaning every word. “It’s unlike you to be concerned that your…ah… _l’amour_ isn’t good enough.”

Francis’ well-groomed eyebrows draw together in the tiniest of scowls. The expression looks out of place on Francis’ face.

“You are as unpredictable as your truly horrid weather patterns, can you blame me?” Francis says. He unties his apron and throws it over one of the stools by the counter.

He supposes he can’t really blame him, so he lets Francis pull out his chair for him, and serve him soup and a hunk of fresh bread. The food smells delicious and Arthur realizes the last time he ate was much earlier that morning; he is suddenly famished.

They start eating without another word. Arthur, who never really tries to pretend he is much of a conversationalist, is at a loss of what to say. He supposes he could comment on the food, but it seems redundant. He’s sure Francis knows how he feels; it’s apparent that the Frenchman can read him much better than he can read himself. He looks at Francis, his hair tied back from his face with a rose colored ribbon, delicate wrists balanced on the edge of the table. There is a band of gold around his left ring finger that looks awfully familiar but Arthur cannot place it.

He takes a bite of soup and swallows. It goes down easily. He wishes Francis would cut the tension and say something.

It takes him half a bowl of soup and sitting in uncomfortable silence before he thinks of something to say. He is quite proud of it.

“Perhaps it’s the other way around.” Arthur says.

“ _Quoi_?” Francis asks, eyes focusing from where they were looking somewhere in the middle distance.

“Perhaps it’s my mood that affects my weather patterns and not the other way around.” Arthur says, pushing some soup around with his spoon. He misses how Francis’ lips curl into a minute smile and he says with warmth in his voice, “Perhaps that’s why the weather is always so awful when I visit.”

“Perhaps.” Arthur agrees.

The finish their meal in much easier silence. However, Arthur doesn’t miss how Francis has trapped one of his feet between both of his. He can feel the warmth of Francis’ skin through his socks; it is a comfortable feeling.

They’re both full when Arthur asks, “This wasn’t just a treat, was it?”

Francis sighs, obviously found out. Arthur knew there had to be some other motive. It was not like either of them to be so black and white about things. Any things. Especially matters of their millennia-old hearts.  

“No. I was wondering when you’d find me out.”

“I found you out in the very beginning, I was just being polite enough to not mention it.”

“Mhmm.” Francis says, his lips curling up in a smile again. They are playing cat and mouse again, Arthur thinks, like they were last night, but this is a rare instance where Francis is the cat and Arthur is feeling very cornered.

“I was thinking about last night,” Francis says. “And…I would like to give you something.”

“It’s not your virginity, so I’m at a loss of what it could be.” Arthur says. Francis actually chuckles, so dinner must have relaxed him.

Francis reaches into his trouser pocket and produces a small black box. For a second Arthur’s heart seems to stop, as Francis gently places it on the table without opening it.

“Before you have a heart attack, _cher_ , I am not asking you to marry me. I remember how well that went over last time,” he chuckles sardonically, “but I at least want you to have the ring. It…it is a nice sentiment I think. Because…like I said last night, you belong to me, just as much as I belong to you.”

Arthur cannot find words, so he acts instead. The velvet of the ring box is warm from being held close to Francis’ body. As he opens the clasp with a little reverb, Arthur is suddenly reminded where he’s seen the ring currently sitting on Francis’ hand. He knows it because he threw the ring’s twin at the back of Francis’ head many, many years ago. With care, Arthur runs the pad of his thumb over the top of the band and heaves what seems like his dying breath.

Noticing his silence, Francis continues, “Marriage for our kind I realize is a futile attempt. It—It simply does not work. Divorce for nations is even messier than it is for mortals, but just because we are not recognized by our governments does not mean that we haven’t given each other some of ourselves and live with one another under some kind of civil arrangement.

“I’m not asking you to wear it.” That gets Arthur’s attention. He looks up at the other sharply.

“Of course,” Francis says, “It would be _nice_ if you did, but I know most of all that I cannot make you do anything you don’t want you to do. I just want you to have it, because it has been, how do you say, burning a hole in my pocket? For what seems like a long time. I just want you to know that even if we are not…devoted to one another—,” Arthur laughs at his wording, he can’t help it, “You still know that part of me loves you. The last time I loved someone and didn’t tell them, things ended in such an awful way. I will not make that same mistake twice.”

Distantly, as if in a dream, Arthur is transported back to a day where he’s watching an innocent’s life being burned away as rough, dirty men hold a broken Francis back and laugh and spit in his face. He takes a deep breath and tries to get rid of the scent of burning flesh in his nose.

He closes the box, throat suddenly feeling tight (reduced to tears twice by the frog in less than 24 hours; this age has made him soft) as he pushes back his chair and surprises the frog, for what, the third time this evening, by settling himself in the Frenchman’s lap.

“You’re not the only one who made some rash declaration of love.” He says, comfortable in Francis’ lap. He unbuttons his shirt (Francis’ hands immediately tightening around his thighs) and pulls his undershirt over his head, letting them drop to the floor beside Francis’ chair. Francis’ eyes immediately go the gauze tapped over his skin.

“You didn’t—,”

“Relax,” Arthur says, “I didn’t go and get your name tattooed on my side. I’m not that stupid.”

He peels back the gauze and underneath, his skin has fully healed over in the past couple of hours. Francis reaches out to touch the words on his side and Arthur finds that the skin is still quite sensitive.

“ _Où se trouve le cœur, là est la maison_.” Francis reads, breathless. Arthur knows it’s a rough translation, but _Home is where the heart is_ has always been one of Arthur’s favorite proverbs, and though he won’t admit it aloud, it sounds quite lovely in French.

Though Arthur knows that he cannot explain to Francis what the proverb really means to him (not without getting very red in the face and so nervous and flustered he stops making any sort of sense) he hopes ( _il espére_ ) that Francis figures it out, that wherever Francis is, that’s his home, that Francis has the key to his heart, and though he may not know it, Arthur knows he will not so quickly give the key to another.

Francis is looking at him as though he is the most precious thing in the world. The feather-light touch at his side is almost in awe.

“Dinner is one thing, but this, this, _Angleterre_ ,” Francis doesn’t seem to be able to find the words, maybe not in English and maybe not in any language Francis knows.

Arthur reaches out and brushes a lock of wavy, blond hair behind Francis’ ear.

“For a man so boastful about his knowledge of _l’amour_ , you’re really an idiot.” Arthur says, “Though I suppose all that wine goes to your head eventually.”

Francis pinches his thigh. He doesn’t yelp. Loudly, anyways.

“You act as though I will take every chance possible to get out of seeing you. Give my feelings a bit more credit for being genuine, luv. You know, God, of course _you_ know, that my heart does not love easily, but I like to think it loves passionately, so have some faith in the fact that I won’t go through myself into another relationship. Honestly.”

Francis leans forward and kisses him before he can scoff properly. Arthur gives a little sigh when he feels the warmth of Francis’ palm press against dark lettering now gracing his side.

“Now if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.”

“I did just make you dinner.” Francis says.

“Not what I meant.” Arthur says. It’s a bit of a stretch, but he can reach the ring box on the other side of the table. “I can’t promise I’ll always wear it, because no doubt I’ll drop it while gardening or something, but tonight I will.”

Francis’ hands barely shake as he slips the thin, gold band onto Arthur’s ring finger.

“Thank you, _cher_ , for making my heart rest a little easier.”

“You’re welcome, you insufferable git,” Arthur says.

Instead of answering right away, Francis slides his hand over the curve of Arthur’s arse and squeezes. “Now you’re already half undressed and the dishes can wait until morning. Perhaps I could express my thanks?”

He throws his head back to laugh before sweeping up the Frenchman in another kiss. He is glad, and safe in the thought, that some things, some realities between them, will not change.

Ink and gold besides.

**Author's Note:**

> More in this series to come probably. 
> 
> Come join the fun: siriusscrewsblokes.tumblr.com


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